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Written by James Davis
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Saturday, 12 June 2010 11:05 |
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Written by James Davis:
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On a quiet Tuesday in January of 2010, in Vancouver, in Kitsilano inside Benny's on Broadway, I casually interviewed two writers--B.S.1 at 4:30PM and S.L.2 at 8:00PM--with the intention of publishing each interview in a local grassroots art news medium at a bi-monthly interval. To my surprise, in the following week, one of the two writers, on the condition of anonymity herein, queried me about the possibility of engineering a contest, a warm and cordial one, insinuating “irrational urge” as his or her chief motive. To my disbelief, the second of the two writers accepted the challenge. And so I, James Davis, having heard that light comes from heat, agreed to devise this contest. In the following days, I configured my two pages of ad lib interview notes into an amalgamated and candid split-screen contrapuntal contest. Once completed, both writers were offered editing opportunities and have ultimately consented to the finished presentation, including the six sentences you just read, and now the seventh: Each writer invites you, yes you, one amongst a coterie, to choose the writer whose future book you would most prefer to read on the basis of the information adduced. Delineate your impressions based on your own standards of judgement. You can vote by emailing either B.S. or S.L. a memo of support. |
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Last Updated on Saturday, 12 June 2010 14:03 |
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VACA Vignette - Rob Fillo |
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Written by James Davis
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Friday, 19 February 2010 13:35 |
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Rob Fillo
Written by James Davis:
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Have you met Rob Fillo? Not feel low. Not file oh. Not even his initials, Raf, a sobriquet one high-school rugby jock failed to popularize. No. Fill-O. Fill: satiable, fed, complete. O: oh, ow, awe, wow. I did meet him. When I reflect, I can’t find reasons not to admire him. He’s a voluptuous, veritable, visceral virtuoso who shows no suasion, smokescreens, or subterfuges. His smile is wide and sharp. He couples smiley faces to his emails. He says “thank you.” If he likes her shoes, he’ll just say so: “nice shoes” and relish how the truth can make a girl blush. He laughs people into laughter. He’s high mileage, having written over a hundred songs. He rents out studio time. He lives off his songs. He doesn’t have a day job. He’s a maestro. Tunesmith. Optimist. Libertarian. Pluralist. Romanticist. He’s impossible to offend. I try; I get a pardon, mirth, random repartee, and I’m back, in a nano-second. He doesn’t waste time. I return after sixty seconds and he’s juggling a flirtatious girl. I return again--a different sixty seconds--and it’s shop talk with a fellow musician. Icing: he expects nothing in return. |
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Last Updated on Wednesday, 24 February 2010 09:10 |
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VACA Vignette - Ryan Fletcher |
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Written by James Davis
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Tuesday, 26 January 2010 00:30 |
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Written by James Davis:
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December 4, 2009 1:01PM
I tip-toed around and over patches of asparagus-coloured moss on the weathered footway to the steady cadence of cathedral-style homes untoward Main and 20th Street. I window shop: handmade marionette string puppets; cotton knot macramé; paper mache pigs; framed triptych panels; thousand fold origami; ivory scrimshaw. Inside Bean Around the World Coffees, a twilight chalk menu suctioned to bricks lit with orbed cakes of incandescent light hitched and hung from the rafters. Back out through the solarium, windows framed with ruby translucent glass spheres, bristle brush pine, and garlands of electric tinsel. Down through the terrarium: asiago-arugula-tomatoed-cervelat-salami sandwiches. The aesthetic relaxes me into a Christmas mood. A chalet? No. Fooled. A business. One dollar per hyphen—$4.00—the night between the “s’s,” $0.50, plus government dues. |
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Last Updated on Saturday, 12 June 2010 11:18 |
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Written by Sarah Martin
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Monday, 11 January 2010 19:02 |
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Mat Lo
Written by James Davis
November 25, 2009 5:53PM
Seymour and Dunsmuir. Seven minutes early: 5:53PM. Another glossy deluge washing over a wet neon streetscape. I escape the peninsular nimbostratus blanket into The Railway Club, climb the newel stairway to the second level into the popular poplar match stick flame tavern. Birch tables. Oak planks. Maple wood wainscot panels. Zones of flat dirty maroon carpeting with humid cinematic footlights. I had heard that anything can happen here—conversation, music, film, meetings, beer chugging, dancing, et cetera, or all of the above—an alternating current. This time: quietly dirty; quietly authentic. Hickory sticks tapped hi-hats and cymbals under neon ionic beam ceiling pots. One $5.10 long neck Sleeman’s Honey Brown. Beforehand, I cast a net and collected biographical information from the subject of my interview—Mat Lo: |
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Last Updated on Wednesday, 24 February 2010 08:52 |
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VACA Vignette - Linda Red Hawk |
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Written by Sarah Martin
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Sunday, 03 January 2010 21:57 |
Linda Red Hawk
Written by James Davis
November 19th, 2009 12:02PM
Broadway and Laurel Street. My intention was to have no intentions. Straying was more than permitted; I was prepped to encourage it. 3.25$ in parking change. I expected an hour interview. I dabbed moisture off my face. I was a wet tea bag, saline steeped, walking into Steeps, to dry off. Scheme: No orchestration. No-prearrangement. No notation. So, no pen. No paper. No “please-repeat-that”-mid-sentence scrawling. Most notably, no editor to officiate. [I won’t narrate the interview either. If a straight line is what I wanted, a recorder would have done]. No. Memory only. And tea. And a private wish to kindle ideas. And a break from novelizing. Perfect.
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Last Updated on Wednesday, 24 February 2010 08:53 |
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